


A Taste of Hell

by GiggleSnortBangDead



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: But Mostly a Very Hot Room, Gen, Isolation, Nausea, Punishment, Vomiting, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26933203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiggleSnortBangDead/pseuds/GiggleSnortBangDead
Summary: To keep angels from Falling, it helps to remind them of the dangers of Hell.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 55
Collections: Hurt Aziraphale





	A Taste of Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Just some traditional whump! This is for prompt 14, which I guess I'm probably supposed to do on day 14 but hey it's what I wrote so....
>
>> No 14. IS SOMETHING BURNING?  
> Branding | **Heat Exhaustion** | Fire

The room was burning around him, but the sweat on his corporation was starting to feel cool, his skin pin-pricking all over. He’d been sent to the boiler — how long ago had it been? Maybe a week, but trying to think back on his time there made his already swollen head feel like it was about to burst. 

Although the room was pitch black, he felt like he was outside in midday sun. There was barely enough room to sit down, but only hours into his internment, he’d slumped against the wall and from there it had just been a matter of time before he ended up on the hot ground. He felt like his legs were being seared through his trousers, and when he accidentally placed his hand on the floor, the burn on his palm had made him yelp. There was no evidence left behind: his hand pale and unmarred but truthfully a little blurry when Aziraphale tried to inspect it later. 

There had been been a smell though—of his own flesh being cooked, and he’d gagged, heaved, and nearly thrown up again. (In the far corner, he had already emptied his stomach early on, when the throbbing in his head had just begun to overwhelm him.) 

He was drifting out of consciousness when he heard the door open. He squinted an eye open but could barely see. There was a huge figure, broad and shadowed, just outside in the whitebright hallway.

“ _Ew_ ,” Gabriel said, a hand flying up to pinch his nostrils. “Aziraphale, did you _get sick_ in here?” 

“...’orry,” he slurred, trying to raise his head. He had to show the proper respect, or Gabriel might get angry and leave him.

“You and your _gross_ matter,” Gabriel tsked. “None of the other angels we’ve corrected have done that.” 

“‘m’sorry,” Aziraphale said again.

Gabriel’s foot tapped, waiting for something. “Well?” he finally said. “I’m not going in there. You’ll have to come out yourself.” Gabriel added as if he hadn’t been clear: “It’s disgusting in there.” 

Aziraphale took a breath and he tried to move. Or rather he tried to try to move. If he could get to his feet, he could shamble the few paces out of the boiler into the cool Heavenly hallway. But he still couldn’t even lift his head. “Please,” he said in a sigh, hoping Gabriel would understand.

“Honestly, Aziraphale,” Gabriel snipped. “Everything’s always a production with you.”

Aziraphale was trying to fall forward; he could maybe crawl out. But Gabriel slammed the door shut, trapping Aziraphale inside again with the insufferable, intolerable, dizzying heat.

He could feel his heart begin to race, thudding as he felt his hands numb into prickling. There was a whining noise rising slowly into a cry, like the shrill of a tea kettle, and he realized that was him, his own throat. 

After about 30 seconds — although Aziraphale could not have been sure — the door flung open. Two angels of no important rank and therefore easily snatched for such an odd job barreled in while Gabriel waited impatiently outside. They jostled Aziraphale about and dragged him up, his stomach lurching and his vision swimming at the movement. They dragged him out and deposited him onto his knees just outside the boiler, at Gabriel’s feet. Aziraphale dry-heaved, trying not to get spit on his boss’s nice, leather shoes. 

“Thanks, that’s all,” Gabriel said, and the angels left without a word. Or at least without any words Aziraphale could hear as he gagged on his own saliva, his stomach not quite settling. It was blissfully cool in the hall, and Azirapahle started shaking from the cold and his excitement at being out. 

“Here’s some water,” Gabriel said, possibly offering him a cup or a bottle above him. “It’s supposed to help with the transition out of the room.” 

“No,” Azirapahle begged, shaking his head, his stomach tightening and squirming at the thought. He was still folded forward on the floor, moments away from retching again. 

Gabriel sighed, deeply put upon. “It’s a difficult experience, but you don’t have to be so dramatic about it. Plenty of angels go through it, and _they_ at least try to be cooperative. Didn’t you learn _anything_ while in there?”

Aziraphale couldn’t remember why he’d been put in there in the first place. It was a reprimand, but what for? He’d done so much wrong, and now he couldn’t remember why exactly he was being corrected. 

“The demons were sent to Hell for asking frivolous question,” Gabriel said slowly, as if to a disobedient animal. The words were more to hear his own righteousness than from a belief that Aziraphale could learn. 

(At that thought, Aziraphale nearly slammed his head against the floor. Only out for 60 seconds, and he was already thinking the wrong things.) 

“It’s only right you have a taste of the pain of Hell before you get yourself in real trouble for questioning directives from your superiors.”

And that was it. Aziraphale had asked about the limits on his miracles: why, if miracles were an unlimited resource, he had to ration them. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said. His stomach seemed to be calming, so he pushed up. Gabriel was holding a tiny plastic cup of water. It was so small, it made his hand look grotesque—giant. But Aziraphale couldn’t be thinking something so disrespectful, only 90 seconds after he’d been let out. 

“Just remember, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, now with a patient smile. “Hell is much worse than that. That heat? It’s nothing compared to the sulfur pits Down There. And it’s not just your body that burns. It’s _all_ of you. And there’s no one like me to hand you some cool water.” He offered it again, and this time Azirapahle took it. He held it carefully between his palms and did not drink. “And come on,” Gabriel laughed. “Clearly you can’t handle all of that.” 

“No,” Aziraphale agreed, trembling. He worried he might accidentally spill the cup, panic surging. “Thank you, Gabriel.”

“For?” Gabriel nudged.

“The water.”

“And?” 

“For the water and the correction.” Aziraphale’s head still pounded and his throat was scratchy, and he realized he was crying, which made none of it better. All he wanted was to go ~~home~~ to the bookshop and crawl into bed. He raised the cup to his mouth and drank. “Thank you,” he said again.

Gabriel helped him to his feet and dusted him off. “Great!” He let go of Aziraphale, but luckily there was a wall close enough that Aziraphale could fall against. “Paperwork, and then back to work!” he said, and then he laughed like the phrasing was clever.

“Just so,” Aziraphale said, when Gabriel looked back at him for a response. Aziraphale smiled for him too, freezing and quivering and, most importantly, grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> Give me a comment if you can! I really am trying to crank stuff out a little faster and not spend 5,000 words on every story, so like, please positively reinforce me! Or don't! But thanks for reading either way!! 
> 
> ([Follow me on my professional fanfiction twitter](https://twitter.com/gigglesnortPro) or [just come kick it with me on my tumbly](https://gigglesnortbangdead.tumblr.com))


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